The Little Clan

by Iris Martin Cohen

  She wasn’t disappointed that this punctiliousness kept him around more. He liked talking about art and movies and never teased her even when she admitted her favorite movies were silent or that she liked equestrian statues best. His tastes were kind of elevated too, she realized happily, as he went on at length about foreign and art house films that she had never heard of. He spent an entire afternoon telling her the plot of Fitzcarraldo, his favorite, the story of the man so determined to bring Italian opera into the jungle that he pushes a boat over a mountain. When she went home and watched it, she understood at once why he liked it, and why it was taking him so long to finish their bar, and she decided she liked his company a lot.

  Today, he was distressed that Ava insisted on staining before he had finished construction. He cantilevered himself over the counter yet again. “I swear, I’m going to be totally done by the end of the day tomorrow. Can’t you wait?”

  Ava wiped away a trail of mahogany stain that was running down her wrist and tried to ignore his displeasure. “We don’t have an extra day, if we still need to varnish this thing. We open in a week.”

  “But you’re going to get sawdust mixed in. The finish is going to look terrible.”

  Ava turned to block his view of the area she was working on which was, in fact, covered in a fine grit, now stained a lovely chocolate brown. “Don’t worry. No one is going to be down here inspecting the finish. It’s going to be beautiful.”

  He picked up his drill with a stricken expression and silently resumed affixing the cheap ornamental moldings that were transforming the plain plywood box. She sympathized, but Stephanie’s brand of impetuousness had spread through the House of Mirth and swept everyone along with it.

  In the next room, Ava could hear Stephanie on her phone wheedling mailing lists from people. So far she had amassed a staggering four hundred names. George, at his laptop, was grappling with a graphic design program and cursing. Ava was enjoying her labor, the dirtiness and fatigue. Industrious, surrounded by the tools of his trade, Ben had a simplicity of bearing that made him look a bit like a Shaker. Also he was wearing suspenders, and this made her very happy. She would probably wear them too if she had a lovely flat chest for them to rest against.

  “I can’t stand it,” he said finally and put down his drill to take the can of stain from her. “You just have to wait at least until I’m not drilling. It’s too dusty. I just can’t.”

  “Okay, okay.” Ava sat back on her heels.

  “Thank you,” Ben said, taking the stain to the other side of the bar with him, which Ava found amusingly distrustful.

  This philosophy of haste had gotten her and Stephanie into some trouble. Ava had tried to install one of the antique wall sconces they found in a junk store without finding and turning off the breakers first. She hadn’t actually known what breakers were until a shower of sparks sent them running to the internet. It was terrifying, but strangely exhilarating. And when they had wallpapered the bathroom, a task that seemed so simple in the enclosed sheet of instructions, the process had devolved into a Laurel and Hardy two-reel. Luckily they found a red Sharpie that almost matched the scarlet paper, so they could go back and color in the long uneven strips of white that kept appearing between vertical rolls. Some of Stephanie’s hair had caught in the glue and now nestled behind the paper, a little telltale heart.

  “Hell’s bells,” George mumbled in the other room. A minute later he slouched in, plucking at the collar of his Barthes is for Lovers T-shirt. “If you want these invitations in time, you guys are going to have to decide who’s doing this reading, so I know what name to put on here.”

  “Phillip Goldman. I already told you.”

  “Who’s that?” asked Ben from behind the bar.

  “He’s in charge of the classic books lectures at the New York Public Library. I used to go all the time and he’s brilliant and he wrote a biography of Edith Wharton, so it just seems really obvious that he should read that at our inaugural event. He’s perfect.”

  “So Ava thinks she gets to decide who should do our reading even though she’s too shy to ask him, and wants me to do it.” Leaning against the door frame, Stephanie held out her hand, examining her rings. “Which is pretty absurd, considering he hasn’t published a book in almost ten years.”

  “You already did ask him and he said yes, so why are we even still arguing about this?” Ava asked.

  “Because no one is going to come to that. There’s no hook. Sam Bates is so hot right now. Not only is everyone writing about his book everywhere, but he just started a literary magazine in Brooklyn, it’s like food and writing or writing about food or like readings at dinner parties or something, I’m not sure, but he’s on fire. Also, and this is kind of beside the point, but he’s black, so if Aloysius was sincere about wanting to expand their membership, this will make us look really good.”

  “It’s odd, he keeps asking me where I’m from,” George mentioned, looking at the ceiling. “And he seems very unsatisfied when I tell him Queens.”

  “I just don’t know,” Ava said nervously and then, realizing that the other three were looking visibly disappointed in her, sighed. “Fine. What is his book about?”

  “Game shows, I think? Or like some show where the contestants eat each other? It’s about appetites or something. I don’t know, but it’s very confusing and everyone loves it.”

  “I read it. It’s pretty good,” George said with a conciliatory shrug.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard the name,” Ben agreed.

  Stephanie’s smile was a little nasty. Ava put her paintbrush gently down on the lid of a can of stain and pulled her into the next room away from Ben and George. “I thought you wanted me to curate our events.”

  “I do. You will. You’re the most important part of all of our programming.”

  “But what you’re describing doesn’t even sound like something I would go to.”

  “You’re as bad as Aloysius says the board is.” Stephanie rolled her eyes.

  “No, I’m not,” Ava said indignantly. “That’s not why. But I’ve been telling you for weeks that we should do something about The House of Mirth for our opening.”

  “And I heard you,” Stephanie said with some exasperation, “and we can and we will. I just need to make sure I can get people in the door. Don’t worry, once we’re established, you can be as fusty and boring as you want. But other people are interested in more than just dead Europeans.”

  Ava flinched a little. “I thought you thought this stuff wasn’t boring.” She wasn’t sure if it was the desire to not be overheard in the next room that was causing the volume to winnow from her voice like a deflating balloon. “I thought you were on my side.”

  “I am. Of course, I don’t think you’re boring.” Stephanie picked at a trace of wood stain on Ava’s cheek. “It’s just everyone else I’m worried about. Once we get them here, I promise this whole place, the project, us, it’s going to seduce everyone, and we will be able to do whatever we want. But I need to get reporters here and they need a hook, and it needs to be contemporary. After that, whatever you want.”

  “I’ve tried to be contemporary,” Ava whispered. “I just don’t get it. It’s not me.”

  Stephanie had already walked back into the other room. “It’s decided,” she announced to George. “Phillip Goldman is going to read—” she gave Ava a wink “—and Sam Bates is, too.”

  “All right, back to Kinko’s.” He unfolded himself and, grabbing his old postal satchel from a corner, loped out of the room.

  Ben paused and straightened, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “You guys are pretty good together,” he said. “You’ve been friends for a long time?”

  Ava was silent.

  “I’ve even heard of that Bates guy, and I’m not much of a reader.”

  Ava sighed and then, realizing Ben was talking, turned her attention t
o him. “Really? You look like you would be into Walt Whitman.”

  “That’s weird.” He laughed. “I do like Whitman. What makes someone look like they read one thing instead of something else?”

  “I don’t know, can’t you just tell? What do you think I like to read?”

  “I would ask you.”

  “Amateur.” Ava smiled and then felt just a little shy, so she looked down toward his shins. The blue cotton looked very worn.

  “I would never try to guess people’s minds. Especially a woman’s.”

  “Sherlock Holmes has a thing about that—you can’t tell if a woman is sitting in the shadows because she’s guilty or if she forgot to powder her nose.”

  “Well, now I know what you like to read. See how conversation works? Although, I don’t know, that sounds a little sexist. I just meant because it seems like kind of a dumb thing to do.”

  “You just don’t understand him.”

  “Are we still talking about Sherlock Holmes? Isn’t he gay? Maybe that’s why he’s not into women.”

  “He’s not gay,” Ava said heatedly and corrected herself. “They’re just friends. I always felt like those aspersions would really hurt Watson’s feelings.”

  “This is a funny conversation,” Ben said, then as Ava started to apologize, he stopped her. “No, I’m into it. Someday I’ll talk to you about the different varieties of pine.”

  “Isn’t all pine the same?”

  “So you would think—” he pointed with his drill “—but, oh my, no, indeed.”

  Ava wasn’t sure if he was kidding, so she kept talking. “Are you going to come and see your bar in action?” She lowered her voice. “It’s not really the event I would have planned, but Stephanie’s good at figuring out what people want.”

  “I’ve noticed.” Ben raised his head toward the breeze wafting in through the window. “I have to say, it’s kind of inspiring what you two have managed to do in here. Not from a professional contracting standpoint so much, but you two sure are determined.”

  “Thanks.” Coming from someone who was able to make monumental furniture appear out of nothing but inspiration and plywood, this felt significant, and she allowed herself a moment of pleasure at the acknowledgment.

  Just then, a sound like the crack of a rifle rang out, and they all jumped. “Hello?” They heard Stephanie in the next room ask, “Can I help you?” Ava and Ben went to investigate.

  Mr. Dearborn stood in the hall and whacked his cane against the doorjamb. “Who’s in charge here?” he asked.

  “Is there something we can help you with?” Stephanie asked with a smile.

  He looked at her coldly, carefully remaining on the far side of the threshold.

  Just like a vampire, Ava thought to herself.

  “The board of directors of this club has reconsidered your proposal,” he announced. Stephanie shot Ava a look. “As treasurer, it has fallen to me to inform you that while we will continue to allow your activities within the grounds of the club, you will henceforth be required to pay a sum of one thousand dollars for the use of these spaces, payable monthly.”

  “You’re going to charge us rent?” Ava noticed and then tried to ignore that his fly was open.

  “I’m Stephanie Sloane,” she reminded him, extending her hand. “Let’s discuss this further. Please come in and sit down. Have you noticed the floors?” she asked.

  He looked at her hand. “I’ve been a member of this club since V-day. I don’t need you to invite me in anywhere.”

  Stephanie put her hands on her hips. “This is not the agreement we discussed with Aloysius.”

  “Aloysius does not own this establishment, whatever he may think. The board has the final say in all club matters.” He spoke with a fury that hinted at previous battles with their errant president.

  Ava hurried forward before Stephanie could say any more. “Of course.” For extra politeness, she let her Southern accent seep through. “We are so honored to be able to participate in such a prestigious institution.” His eyebrows curled, thick and heavy like a Muppet. “Have you noticed all of the improvements we have made? Would you like to see the rest of the work we have done to preserve this valuable architectural history? And also—” she bent down and ran a hand along the shining parterre “—look at how beautifully it came out.”

  “Not bad,” he sniffed.

  “Maybe we could see if there is some way to mutually benefit each other. We are all members of the Lazarus Club here, and we all only want what’s best for the club, of course,” she continued in high, affected Dixie.

  “I demand another meeting with the board. This is outrageous. I have a Pulitzer Prize winner coming next week,” Stephanie interrupted.

  “Only board members are allowed to call meetings. There is nothing to discuss.” He turned to leave.

  “Does Aloysius know about this?” Stephanie called after him. “Aloysius is very pleased that we’re here. He loves us.”

  The only response was the angry stabbing of a cane on the hallway floor, as he inched away toward the main staircase.

  Ben discreetly slipped back into the other room, and they heard the high whine of the drill. “Those no-good, sneaking geezers.” Stephanie paced, stomping her heels against their sparkling floors. She grabbed a book from a shelf and threw it, but it landed in the plush of an armchair with an anticlimactic silence. “You realize what happened, don’t you? They waited until we had invested all this work and money to spring this on us.”

  Ava picked up the book and sat in the chair, worriedly flipping its pages. “You think?”

  “Definitely. Just because they’re old doesn’t mean they aren’t a devious bunch of scheming schemers.”

  “But I thought we were all supposed to be part of a big cultural family. Didn’t Aloysius say we were the future of the club?”

  Stephanie snorted. “More like Social Security.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “We’ll just ignore them.” Stephanie allowed herself to be distracted by the buzzing of her cell phone. “It’s not like we’ve signed a lease or anything. What can they do?”

  “They could kick us out and congratulate themselves on finding the world’s cheapest contractors.” Ava folded her legs and pressed the tops of her sneakers despondently.

  Stephanie looked up from her texting. “Look, if worse comes to worst, we’ll just have to hustle more. I can raise the cost of the patron membership.”

  “Oh, is that all it takes?” Ava tensed to the tapping of buttons.

  “Okay, I’ve got to run. I have a meeting. When George finishes that invitation, email it to me, and I can send it out from home.” She threw her phone in her purse.

  “So you’re really not worried about this?” Ava asked.

  “We’re obviously not going to stop now when we’ve come this far. They don’t have a leg to stand on.” Stephanie fluffed up her hair in the mirror over the mantelpiece. “Don’t sweat it. Ciao, love.”

  Ava didn’t answer. She sat, squeaking a rubber-soled toe against the floor. The renovations were done, their bank account, now that they had one, was at zero, Ava’s credit card balance enormous. Stephanie seemed to think that once they made it to their grand opening, money in the form of membership dues would start to rain down on them. Ava was far from sure, but what else could she do at this point? She went back into the bar. A smell of varnish rose from the wood, toxic, bracing. Ben was making notes with that mechanical pencil Ava liked so much. She leaned over to look; it was the same drawing of the now built bar. Sharp lines laid out the form quietly and assertively, and there was something entrancing about this proof of conjecture now made real. How nice, she thought again, to be able to turn thoughts into objects that then became filled with their own ineluctable presence. “I still can’t believe you made this,” she said.

  �
��You’re easily impressed.” He smiled and snapped open a measuring tape, checking it against the edge of the bar in one quick motion. “We all have our talents.”

  “Do we?” She picked up her can of stain again. “I’m not so sure.”

  “You definitely have a talent.” He didn’t elaborate, and Ava felt it would be unbecoming to press him. It occurred to her that all of the things he must consider her talents, the wrangling of boards, the convincing people to join, finding writers to participate, the whole bustle of activity that had led to this point which had excited his admiration, were all just manifestations of Stephanie’s powerful id. “So Stephanie said you’re a writer.”

  Ava looked up in surprise. “She did? Why?”

  “I asked. I was curious about you, why you’re doing this.”

  For one moment, Ava thought of confessing everything. Of all people, maybe Ben would understand the desire to create something out of the undifferentiated mass of impressions that flowed through her mind. But this shiny bar looming before them seemed to make the difference in their status so clear that a shyness overtook her. “Nope,” she said.

  “Really?” Ben asked, confused. “Why would she...”

  Ava didn’t allow him to finish. “We don’t have a lot of time before we open.”

  “Okay.” He drilled a few more screws. “That’s cool. I’m sorry.” The drill screeched again. “So I couldn’t help overhearing before, but do you guys really not have any kind of lease here? You’re either really big optimists or you’re nuts.”

  Ava didn’t want to look at him. “Yeah, one of the two.”

  “A thousand dollars is insanely cheap for this space. You guys should really sign a lease. Like, tomorrow.”